


But I'm a Footie Player

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: All mistakes are mine, Biphobia, F/F, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, With boys, and more angst but also less angst, but also angst, but i'm a cheerleader AU, i dunno it's not just gay stuff there's a lotta bisexuality going on because that's my brand, no one edited this but me and I was kinda drunk when I did, vague mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:03:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: Liam is popular, has a great girlfriend, and plays football--so he can't be gay, right?"But I'm A Cheerleader!" AU





	But I'm a Footie Player

**Author's Note:**

> Fic based on But I’m a Cheerleader (starring two actresses who were SEMINAL in my understanding I’m a queer woman! Thanks, Clea Duvall and Natasha Lyonne!) but with some confused-boy lil’ 1D AU stuff instead. Also way more bisexual characters than the original story.
> 
> This is stupid and self-indulgent, and it completely ignores the people who are in Ziam’s life lately, which, whatever, it’s fic, and I’m not up on the weirdness that is fandom because I’m SO TIRED and I was more into the fandom back in its infancy until the insanity (it’s still insane, I know this, I know)
> 
> This is basically crack fic, y’all. But there's some angst. Just like the movie.  
> Watch the movie.
> 
> And yeah, in the original movie, the camp is genuinely called True Directions. That’s not a reference to the band. But it is the thing that gave me the idea to write this horrorshow.

Liam’s not entirely sure what’s happening, but he drags his suitcase out of the backseat of his parents’ green woody-wagon all the same. Dani's not with them anymore, having left after the awkward sort-of intervention in his living room.

 

_“We think—” she choked out, pretty brown eyes wet with tears._

_His father cleared his throat. “You might be gay, is the thing,” he finished._

_Liam laughed, tugging at the neck of his football jersey where it suddenly feels too-tight. “What are you talking about?”_

_“You don’t—you don’t even—” Dani tried to hold back a sob, but couldn’t. “You don’t even like to kiss me!” she finally yelled, eyelids falling shut over unshed tears._

_“S-sure I do,” Liam said haltingly, no long sure if he was lying or not. He looked to his dad and mum, who both appeared distinctly uncomfortable._

_“We—we love you, we do,” his mum assured him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “And we want what’s best for you, love.”_

_“And grandkids,” his dad added._

_“And grandkids,” his mum confirmed. “That too.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Liam insisted. “This is ridiculous.”_

_“Your locker is full of pictures of TopMan models,” Dani pointed out, swiping the back of one hand against her right eye._

_“That’s normal, plenty of people do that!” Liam crowed, sitting down heavily into an armchair._

_“Yeah,” Dani agreed. “Girls. _Straight_ girls.”_

_“Or bisexual girls,” Liam muttered, which only seemed fair._

 

His suitcase bumps the back of his legs. He nearly stumbles, but rights himself at the last moment, looking up at the pink Victorian house, the trim a bright baby-blue. It’s nestled in the arsehole-end of the English countryside, somewhere South of any town Liam’s ever heard of.

It has a wrap-around porch, and two low-hanging swings flank the front door. A short yet somehow leggy brunette is sitting next to a guy sporting a swoopy quiff, and they’re both frowning. They’re leaning in to one another’s touches, though, and Liam is confused for so many reasons.

The sign atop the entrance to the house says _True Directions._ Liam sighs, and his suitcase hits his leg again.

The couple on the porch eventually spot him and his parents. They both jump out of the swing and grace Liam with easy smiles and waves.

“New to the group, then?” the girl asks, flicking a lock of her hair away from her eyes. “Nice to meet you! I’m Cher.” She sticks out a hand, and Liam shakes it easily.

“Yeah, cheers. Liam.”

“Louis, I’m Louis,” says the guy, running one hand across the back of his neck. “That’s Zayn over there across the garden,” he adds, pointing to a dark-haired figure smoking a stubby cigarette, “and I think Selena and Niall are having lemonade just around the way.”

“Right.” Liam blinks repeatedly, hefting his suitcase up a bit.

“Head on in, then?” Cher offers, gently, pointing towards the front door.

“Suppose we ought to!” Liam’s dad says with false bravado, shouldering past him to open the door to _True Directions._ Liam’s mother grabs his hand, slowly leading them both into the house behind his dad.

They’re immediately greeted by an imposing man who seems to be trying to make himself appear welcoming. He has on a white v-neck atop blue pants, and his hair is very structured. Beside him is a young woman with long blonde hair, in a neat pink cocktail dress and kitten heels.

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Simon. You must be Liam and Liam’s parents!” The man extends a hand, and both of Liam’s parents shake it. Liam does not.

“I’m Rocki,” says the blonde, extending her hand to them as well. Liam does shake her hand. “I’m Simon’s daughter. I’m co-administrator here. Welcome to True Directions!”

Liam licks his lips, looking from Simon to Rocki to his parents. “I’m—I’m Liam.” He’s found that he stutters a lot lately, now that everyone knows he’s gay.

“Hi, Liam, and welcome to our home.” Simon claps him on the back, just once, a little too hard. His eyes are cold, while Rocki’s eyes look a bit more welcoming. Marginally, perhaps. “Welcome to True Directions.”

“We’re thrilled to have you,” she adds, placing a hand on his forearm, as if it’s comforting. He believes her, but just slightly.

 

Rocki leads him to his shared bedroom, which is painted blue and covered in posters of male athletes. His headboard rests directly beneath an old, slightly crumpled cutout of Michael Jordan, and Liam begins to question the science behind True Directions. Nevertheless, he sets his suitcase down and begins to unpack his things, settling them into the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Someone wanders into the room just as Liam snaps the lid of his case shut. Liam startles, obviously, and takes a deep breath before extending one hand. “Hi, I’m, uh, Liam.”

His presumed roommate nods once, biting at his bottom lip. He has dark curly hair, and his eyes are rimmed in brown-coloured eyeliner. It’s distracting for many, many reasons. He’s also wearing skinny blue jeans with a studded belt below a tight t-shirt. “Harry. That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, mate, same.” Harry gives him a smile that looks genuine, and Liam’s head settles a bit.

His head begins to buzz again, however, when Harry hops into his bed after shucking off everything but his baby-blue boxers. He covers himself with the blue duvet, and Liam immediately looks away. He can’t stop hearing the noises, though, of Harry taking himself in hand. Harry’s _just across the room_ from Liam, obviously, and then there’s an alarming _zap_ noise.

Liam yelps.

“Aversion therapy!” Harry calls, sounding positive enough from beneath his blue duvet.

Liam thinks, _That’s not what aversion therapy is,_ but he’s not altogether sure.

::

 

Dinner is awkward, because it’s at a long dining-room table. Rocki sits at one end and Simon is at the other. Their drinks syrupy sweet, but Harry happily slurps at his concoction, lips a smooth pucker, and Liam has to look away because it’s so obscene.

The bloke next to him, Zayn, has sharp eyebrows and sharp cheekbones, and his hair is pitch-black. His smolder makes Liam want to do unforgivable things, and Liam doesn’t want to be _entirely_ unforgivable. Nevertheless, he can’t help but glance sideways every few minutes.

Zayn is beautiful.

 

The whole situation proves very troublesome for the entire meal.

 

It becomes doubly problematic when he realizes that the placement of the windows in their room means that the moonlight often shines directly onto Zayn’s face during a given night. Liam spends his second, third, and fourth night staring at Zayn’s sleeping form. Zayn, unlike Liam, seems to have no trouble falling (and staying) asleep. He seems untroubled by the zapping and yelping from Harry’s bed, along with the melodic snoring from Niall’s. Louis, for his part, seems to toss and turn as much as Liam does, but his eyes stay closed, so Liam supposes he’s the only one in the room with insomnia.

Liam wonders if the girls’ room is like the boys’ is, colour-coded and gender-coded alike. He supposes they have the same aversion devices the boys do—electro-stimulating wands that glow bright and hot against the skin. Liam is unnerved by them, refusing to take his out of the drawer of his bedside table. He plucks at the blue duvet, and his cheek chafes against the blue pillows, and he tries to think of Dani. 

But mostly he stares at Zayn.

 

Liam’s first Group Therapy session is a bit like he what group therapy might be like at a normal psychiatric clinic, except that it’s completely worse. Everyone is sits in a circle on squeaky chairs, and they’re to go around admitting that they’re homosexual and trying to find their _root._ A root is meant to be the core, deep-down, for their gayness—only, Liam can never find one, and no one else’s is giving him any help.

Louis always heaves a sigh and says in a monotone, “Me mum’s been married three times, and I suppose I got used to seeing her as the head of the household.” After he finishes, he frowns and slouches down.

Cher tends to be a bit more forthcoming, although her story changes from session to session. She readily admits to being a homosexual, but the ensuing narratives vary. “I went to an all-girls primary school.” “I never learned to jump rope.” “I wasn’t permitted to shave my legs until I was fifteen.”

Zayn doesn’t ever share his root, but he does admit that he’s gay. He says it with ease, flicking a cigarette blithely. Liam wonders just where Zayn managed to procure cigarettes in the arse-end of England, but he admires the daring-do of smoking during Group.

Perrie, Kendall, Selena, and Taylor sit in a tight knot next to one another, nearly every time. A girl named Demi moves around seats in the circle, eyeing up Niall and Selena alike.

Liam appreciates that.

Niall refuses to accept the homosexual label, and on a random Tuesday, he announces why.

“I’m not a homosexual!” he cries, standing up from his blue wingback, hand raised in the air. “And I never have been!”

“Now, Niall,” Mr. Cowell soothes, although his tone is not particularly soothing. His daughter, Rocki, tries to place a soft hand on Niall’s arm, but her palm doesn’t land on his skin.

“I’m bisexual!”

The entire room goes silent.

“I like pussy and cock! I like men and women and people of no gender or indeterminate gender! Okay? I’m _not_ a homosexual!”

Mr. Cowell clears his throat, looking ill-at-ease. “That’s all well and good to say, my lad, but bisexuality doesn’t exist.”

Even Liam groans aloud, and he’s not alone. Most of his peers either grimace or frown, if not outright scoff.

“Yes, that’s right, boys and girls. Bisexuality is a phase.”

“It’s not a phase,” Niall yells, trying to flip his chair. It’s an awkward move at best, and he mostly just manages to tip it sideways, but he punctuates his words by kicking the chair. “Fuck, that hurt.”

Zayn purses his lips. “It does hurt when someone denies your identity or tells you how to identify, yes.” He stands up to help Niall fix his chair, patting his shoulder afterwards. “How about we go for a walk, get some fresh air?”

“This does seem like a good time for a break, yes,” Simon agrees, waving a hand vaguely. “We can all move outside, for some lemonade and biscuits.”

Liam turns to Harry, pitching his voice low. “What’s with all the lemonade, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know. When life gives you lemons and some shit, I guess? Theories abound, but I don’t really want to take too close a look at all of it.”

“What? Why?”

Harry cards at his wavy hair with one hand—which is on the too-long side of what Simon would deem appropriately masculine—before giving Liam a small, sad smile. “Because if you take too close a look at it all, you flip a chair during Group Therapy and have to be talked down by Zayn, of all people. It’s all too dire.”

Liam stops himself from grabbing ahold of Harry’s arm, but just barely. He’s questioning every single one of his instincts as it is, so keeping his hands to himself just seems like the safest bet. “Wait, so you—” Liam pitches his voice even lower. “You don’t buy into this stuff?”

“What, reprogramming and de-gay-ification? Hell no.”

“But what’s—what’s with the zapper thing, then, like what are you even doing here?”

Harry picks up three cookies in one giant hand and two cups of lemonade in the other. “Getting my rocks off, of course. Plus, it was here or military school, and if you think this place is homophobic, I have to say that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell doesn’t really apply in the barracks when you’ve got a face like mine.”

“Yeah,” Liam says thoughtlessly, “plus the dimples.”

Harry shoves a biscuit into his mouth, choking slightly as he catches onto what Liam said. He takes a swig of lemonade, coughing. “Yeah. They’d eat me alive.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Something tells me you’d like that.”

“Exactly, Liam.” He pokes Liam’s arm with a biscuit. “Now have a biscuit. We’ll make something of you yet.”

He bites into the Bourbon-cream, considering this. “But I’m already am something.”

“Oh?” Harry chugs one lemonade and starts on his second.

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I’m a footie player.”

 

::

To say that his relationship with Harry blossoms into a beautiful friendship is a bit of an overstatement of facts, but it does prove useful in a few respects. For starts, Harry doesn’t jack off in their shared room anymore, claiming that it’s not as fun because Liam no longer turns bright red from embarrassment. Harry also helps him try to _beat the system,_ a bit, or at least how to fake like he believes in it. He claims there’s a trick to it, of not sharing too much or too little during Group Therapy, and keeping a cool head.

“How do you keep a cool head?” Liam asks one afternoon that they’re outside chopping wood.

“Oh, I don’t in the way you’d really think, but I guess I’ve got friends in high places.” Harry glances over towards the flower garden where Rocki is teaching the girls how to arrange flowers. He gives her a lopsided smile when she looks his way, and she drops a fistful of chrysanthemums. “She’s got a huge crush on me,” he says with a beleaguered sigh.

“That’s cold-blooded,” Liam responds, slightly awe-stricken.

“Well. We gotta do what we gotta do. Today, you’ve got to be a lumberjack while I stand here looking pretty.” Harry cocks one hip out, and the look coupled with his blue buffalo-check flannel makes Liam snort.

“What if I want to stand here looking pretty?”

“You have a different niche to fill, I think.” He glances to his left, coughing discretely. “I think if you undo a button or two, we could have you looking downright studly. Don’t look now, but I think Zayn’s already checking you out.”

Liam, in the middle of winding up to swing, nearly loses his balance, dropping the axe. He blames it on sweaty hands when Louis and Harry laugh at him. It’s easy enough to retaliate later, seeing Harry go ghostly-pale when Liam claims to have put depilatory cream in his shampoo. 

(He steals one of Louis’ socks from each pair he owns, but he’s largely sure that Louis never notices.)

 

In many ways, life at True Directions isn’t vastly different from school. Liam doesn’t really like the administration much, and a lot of his peers are definitely idiots, but the eye candy isn’t anything to scoff at. Plus, once he settles in a little bit more, he manages to bond with more of the others. Basically, in addition to watching Harry pretend not to flirt with everyone, Liam gets to play football with Louis during recreation, learn to play guitar with Niall in their room, and witness Zayn’s constant smolder everywhere he exists.

It’s kind of like…having friends

::

One windy day, Liam and Louis give up on their game of football because the ball keeps blowing away and neither can manage to score a goal on the other. They traipse back inside and find Zayn and Harry sitting cross-legged on the floor of their room, Zayn bent over Harry’s left arm, staring at it intently. Niall’s reclined on his bed, idly strumming his guitar while rolling his eyes.

“Lads,” Louis crows, chucking the ball at Liam’s head.

“What are you doing?”

“Dumb shite,” Niall says, accompanying himself with an E-minor as he says it.

“I’m giving Harry a stick-and-poke tattoo.” Zayn leans back, gesturing to Harry’s arm. There’s an outline of a cartoonish heart high up on his bicep. “He lives for the pain.”

“I think we all know way too much about what Harry likes, thank you, Zayn,” Liam mutters, flopping down on his own bed.

Zayn shrugs easily, removing a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it one-handed—and seriously, where does he manage to get them, Liam wonders, because it’s not like they’re allowed to go into town lest they become re-infected with the Homosexual Agenda. Maybe his mum sends them in care packages.

“Sick, bro. Do me next?” Louis demands, sitting down beside Harry and Zayn.

“You’re gonna regret that someday, me lad,” Niall argues, moving his fingers to form a new chord.

“Love is love, Niall, and I for one am going to celebrate that.” Harry’s voice takes on a tone that Liam’s sisters would call _haughty._

“By indelibly marking up your body?”

“It’s my body, and I can do with it what I like.”

“And again, I say, I think we all know a bit too much about what Harry likes to do with his body,” Liam says, raising an eyebrow. Zayn catches his gaze from across the room, shooting him a crinkle-eyed smile even as he smokes a cigarette. (And honestly, if Zayn were a demon sent directly from hell to torture Liam for being gay, he wouldn’t even be mad at this point)

In the end, Louis gets a small triangle on his ankle, agreeing with Harry that _love is love and all that mushy crap._

If he gets a super-affectionate cuddle from Harry after that, Liam’s not one to blame them.

::

A few days later, after dinner, when Liam grows bored of watching Harry colour in his fingernails with a black permanent marker and annoyed at the schoolboy crush the newest intake Shawn clearly has on Niall, Liam wanders around the house in search of entertainment.

The approved books, magazines, and movies provided at True Directions are cloying to Liam much the same way the bright-pink and bright-blue uniforms are, so he doesn’t pause long in the lounge. Taylor and Demi are reading their horoscopes aloud in the sitting room while Cher dabs at her wrists and neck with a perfume sample torn out of one such fashion magazine. Louis is nowhere to be found, which doesn’t bode well but is absolutely not Liam’s responsibility.

He heads outside and grabs a football from the unlocked sport-utility shed, figuring if nothing else, at least he can run a few drills before curfew. Moving towards the back of the house, he spots Zayn, sitting alone on one of the wrought-iron patio tables, nursing a glass of lemonade.

“Not you too,” he sighs, dropping down onto the chair opposite Zayn.

“Pardon?”

“All this fucking lemonade. Is this place some kind of cult run by Big Citrus to keep us from getting scurvy?”

Zayn gives him a crinkle-eyed smile before finishing his glass. “I think they’re trying to pull a repeat Jonestown and figured the lemon flavour would best cover up the taste of cyanide.”

It takes a moment for Liam to clock the reference, but when he does, he shakes his head. “Nah. If it was, Harry’d be long dead by now. He drinks that stuff like it’s going out of style.”

If anything, Zayn’s smile intensifies. It’s a sight to behold. “Ha. Style.” Liam puzzles at this, shaking his head. “Styles. His last name is Styles.”

“His last name is _Styles?_ He’ll have a long and successful career in porn after he gets out of here, no doubt.”

“Could say the same for you, Mr. Liam Payne.” Zayn fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offers one to Liam, who refuses with just a shake of his head.

“I’m not into pain,” Liam counters. “How do you know my last name, anyway?”

“I know way more than I should about this place and everyone here.” Zayn takes a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out on an exhale. “Of the guys here right now, I’ve been here the longest. You pick stuff up, yeah?”

Liam hums slightly, rolling the football in his hands. “Like how Shawn has a massive thing for Niall, who is annoyingly oblivious?”

“That. Did you know Niall and Selena were a couple for a while but kept it secret lest they feed into TD’s compulsory performative heteronormativity?” Zayn takes another drag. “I honestly think that was a copout for internalized biphobia, but I’ve been told I can be a little too into discourse at times.”

“…Right. That, too.”

Zayn rubs one hand along his jaw. “Like now, for example,” he says, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Impressive attempt at flirting on my part, that was.”

Liam bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to keep a straight face. “That—that was you flirting?”

“Hey!” Zayn his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with a stamp of his heel. “We can’t all be Harry with the curls and the dimples and the stupid tight t-shirts.”

“Bro, Harry is currently colouring his nails with Tipex and Sharpie, probably killing the last few brain cells he has left. No one but Harry can be Harry. That’s kind of the point of having a Harry.” Liam sucks in a courageous breath. “Plus, I mean—have you _seen_ you?”

“What’d you mean?”

Liam leans forward, resting his hand on the table just beside Zayn’s. “No one but Zayn can be Zayn.” Zayn blinks at him owlishly. “Which is probably a blessing, because the world can’t contain that much attractiveness without just straight-up bursting into flames.”

“I, uh.” Zayn intertwines his pinky with Liam’s. “I think your attempts at flirting are way, way more effective than mine.”

“I dunno. Reckon you’re doing all right.”

 

Within a few minutes, they _run out of things to talk about_ (Zayn’s line of reasoning) and _really ought to return the football to the shed before curfew_ (Liam’s line of reasoning), so they both stumble away from the patio, trying not to touch one another too much.

Liam yanks open the door and immediately sneezes, dropping the ball onto the ground. Zayn shoves him inside and shuts the door behind them. “Careful, there’s a lawn-bowling set to your left that almost murdered Louis the other day,” Liam warns, waving in its general direction.

Zayn takes out his lighter and flicks it. “What, you bring all the boys to this shed?”

“No.” Liam rolls his eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, he wraps one hand around the back of his neck. “I’ve, uh, never.”

“Oh! Oh. Okay.” Zayn hefts his lighter higher, presumably to explore the inside of the shed.

“Also, I’m like ninety percent sure Harry and Louis are fucking.”

“What, right now?”

Liam flicks the light-switch, and Zayn closes his lighter. “I dunno. I mean, they might be, but that’s really not—”

Zayn steps forward into Liam’s personal space. “Really not what?”

“Really not what I want to talk about right now, I don’t think,” he murmurs, backing up slightly, his gaze falling down to Zayn’s lips.

“Yeah.” Zayn puts the lighter into his pocket before reaching forward to grab Liam’s hand. “So, uh. Are we doing this?”

“W-what are we doing?”

Zayn gives him the softest, sweetest smile before leaning up to press a kiss to Liam’s lips. Liam relaxes into it slowly, exhaling, opening his mouth a bit. He can feel Zayn smiling, feels Zayn’s hand tighten around his own. He snakes one hand around Zayn’s hip, anchoring them together. He startles just slightly when Zayn opens his mouth, too, gently, like Liam might panic.

Rather than panic, Liam presses in even closer to kiss down Zayn’s stubbled jaw and onto his neck. Things are just nearing what Liam would call _heated_ when the curfew bell sounds.

Naturally, as unnatural as most things are at True Directions, that involves Simon ringing an old-fashioned school bell from the front steps of the teacake-coloured house. They both jump apart, Liam knocking into a wall and Zayn nearly braining himself on the lawn-bowling set.

“Suppose we should get back,” Liam says sheepishly, helping Zayn to his feet. “To be continued?”

“Damn straight.”

Liam groans as he flips off the light.

::

 

“So I have an idea,” Louis says during dinner later that week, voice cast low and full of mischief.

“No,” Liam and Niall say in unison. Harry’s mouth is too full to talk, and Zayn looks mildly curious.

“Hear me out.”

Harry swallows half of his food before shaking his head. “I can’t go to prom with you, Lou. I don’t have anything pretty to wear.”

“You look gorgeous in everything, darling,” Louis counters, flicking Harry on the nose.

Liam turns to Zayn. “I have a hard time telling when they’re joking or not.”

“That feeling never really goes away,” Zayn murmurs. “But yes, there’s a sad semblance of prom here at True Directions. We wear suits and ties and pin on corsages, hoping like hell we don’t poke a girl in the tit.”

“I thought corsages went on the wrists,” Liam says, trying unsuccessfully to wrangle the last of his peas onto his fork.

“Yeah, Z, you’re thinking of boutonnieres,” Niall adds.

“This is not about prom, lads. This is about Friday. But we’ll circle back to prom,” he adds when he sees Harry pout. “Now, White Swallow is having a sixteen-plus night on Friday, and we are gonna do our damnedest to sneak out and dance til dawn.”

Niall snorts. “And then what?”

“I have not yet finalised the plan, but I suggest we play it by ear,” Louis says smugly, steepling his fingers like a super-villain.

“I do not anticipate this ending well,” Zayn replies, lighting up a cigarette.

“You in?” Louis asks, grinning.

“Fuck yes.”

::

That Friday, everyone makes a show of getting ready for bed, the girls in their pink nightgowns dabbing cold cream on their faces while the boys button up their blue pajamas and brush their teeth. Liam watches, fascinated, as Cher puts her long hair into rollers, covering it with a silky nightcap.

“Aren’t you just going to take those out in like, half an hour?” he asks, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Adds to the illusion, innit?” She turns to face him, quirking her lips. “I can do your makeup later, if you like.”

Liam pauses. “I—I don’t think I’ve ever worn makeup before.”

“Well if there’s anything that True Directions can teach us, it’s that there’s a first time for everything.”

 

Later, she puts a little shimmery highlight on his cheekbones, telling him her life story in her bright Midlands accent. She’s so short that Liam has to close the toilet and sit on the lid while she finishes the look. She hums, pressing at a spot on his collarbone. “You want me to cover that bruise for ya, babe?”

“It’s, uh. It’s all good. Thanks.” She sets everything with a finishing spray and pronounces him done. He stands up, moving to look at himself in the mirror. “You do this every day?”

“Varying levels of whatever I’m feeling that day, more like.” She purses her lips to add red gloss before taking her hair out of her rollers. Somehow, with very little effort, she looks miraculous, while Liam struggles to put his hair into a simple quiff.

“How many people are going tonight, d’you reckon?” 

Cher hums, considering. She puts a little bit of glitter in her hair. “Not clear. We’re going in shifts, I think, just to make it all easier. Least half of us, last I heard.”

Suddenly, Liam goes still, having just realized something. “How the hell are we getting there?”

 

Shortly, Liam, Cher, Harry, and Demi sneak down the creaky staircase. Harry is the least stealth amongst them, but he claims to have the most practise sneaking out because he had a _slutty phase_ during his first year of college.

“Okay, sweetie, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but what kind of phase are you in now?” Demi whispers, grabbing his hand as they sneak through the side garden. She’s careful not to step in the flowerbeds, her heeled black boots sinking slightly into the grass as they walk.

“I’ve upgraded to my flamboyant phase.” He gestures to his glittery pink boots, his floral headscarf, and his skintight jeans.

“Fascinating, Harry,” Liam deadpans. “Where are we going, exactly? I feel like I’m about to get hunted for sport.”

They make it past the trees and down the gravel drive. “Hate to break it to you, but we’re headed to that white windowless van down there,” Harry murmurs.

“Okay, so sold into sex slavery. Gotcha.” Liam sighs.

Harry opens the van door and shoots Liam a wide grin. “I’m flattered, but excuse me, Liam. No thank you. And anyway, Nick’s a good guy.” Harry gets in the van before holding his hands out to help Demi and Cher in after him. “He’s an ex-ex-gay." Harry grabs Liam by the elbow to help him into the van, too.

The driver of the van exhales, turning around to shake Liam’s hand. “Young Harold exaggerates, a bit, but I find that it is one of his more charming qualities.”

“What, you attended True Directions?”

“Yep,” Nick says, turning forward to put the van into gear. “For a little while. Can’t say I miss it much.”

Liam hums in agreement, giving Harry a solemn look.

“Where are we going?” Demi asks, flicking a lock of short hair away from her eyes as she leans forward from the far back row of the van.

“White Swallow,” Harry says, re-tying the headscarf in his hair.

“Aww, not the Kitty Kat?” Cher asks, reapplying her lipgloss. “Haven’t been there in ages.”

“Chezza, we’ve been over this,” Nick chastises. “The Kitty Kat doesn’t have an underage night, and I will not condone alcohol abuse amongst minors.”

“Hey, I’m eighteen,” Liam lies. They entire van erupts into laughter, and Cher pats his arm. “I am very close to being eighteen!”

 

:::

Liam, Cher, and Demi have formed a half-circle around Harry, who is twirling around in a sort-of rhythmic fashion that may or may not be actual dancing. He’s just roped Liam into shimmying with him when the next group from True Directions walks into White Swallow. Louis swaggers into the bar as if he owns it, fringe swept off his forehead. Behind him is Niall, sporting a snapback, oversized muscle-tank, and Adidas high-top sneakers. But the person who really arrests Liam, naturally, is Zayn, because Liam is absolutely hopeless. Zayn is wearing black skinnies, a white vest, and a leather jacket—and once he gets close enough to greet them, Liam spots that he’s also wearing eyeliner.

“You—you look nice.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Liam takes a sip of his cranberry juice, because apparently fruit-based beverages have overtaken his life ever since he’s embraced his possible homosexuality. “You want something to drink?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever’s on special is fine.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, following Liam up to the bar.

Liam squints at the list of what’s on offer, turning to Zayn. “Yeah, thing is, I don’t actually drink, so.”

“Yeah, no, I know. I was waiting to see how long it took for you to mention that.” Zayn gives him a scrunch-eyed smile. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have let it go on too long.” He waves down the bartender, ordering a lager. “And while we’re noting things we do or don’t, I, uh, I don’t really dance.”

“You brought me to a gay bar knowing that I don’t drink and you don’t dance?”

Zayn shrugs, taking a sip of his lager. “Height of romance, this.”

“I dunno.” Liam twines his left hand into Zayn’s right. “Think we’re doing all right.”

 

So, while they don’t really dance, and only one of them sort of drinks, they press against the window and make-out until last call.

 

::

Liam and Louis have to bodily support Zayn out of the van that night, because he may present as a smoldering god, but he is ultimately a lightweight. They have to shush him repeatedly, because he keeps giggling and trying to poke the birthmark on Liam’s neck.

They eventually make it to their room, and Zayn’s chuckling softens to gentle snuffling. “Let’s get you to bed,” Liam offers.

“Come with me?”

“Not a good idea, love.” Liam nods gently at Louis, who disentangles himself from the fray, starting to change out of his clothes.

“No, not—I mean, _eventually,”_ Zayn whispers, flopping out of Liam’s grasp onto his duvet.

Liam tugs off Zayn’s shoes and jacket, moving the duvet so it covers him up. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

“Promise?” Zayn asks, rubbing at one eye so that his eyeliner smudges a bit.

“Sure.” He leans down to kiss Zayn’s forehead, startling when Harry clears his throat as he enters the room.

“Mate.” Harry yanks off his headscarf, tossing it under his bed. “You are so fucked.”

Liam sighs.

::

Liam brings a cup of coffee up from breakfast to their room, handing it to Zayn wordlessly. “You’re a saint among men,” Zayn groans, sucking down the entire cup without moving his head from his pillow. With his other hand, he waves vaguely at his discarded skinnies, and it’s a testament to how far-gone Liam is for him that he knows to retrieve a cigarette and Zayn’s lighter.

“I’ll be all right in a few hours.”

Liam snorts. “You’re always all right, but we have Group Therapy in about a half-hour, and Simon’ll spill blood if you miss it.”

Liam barely keeps Zayn from lighting his bedclothes on fire.

::

“No, I still don’t have my root, I don’t think,” Liam says, shrugging. “I might not even have one, you know?”

“Nonsense,” Rocki says from his left, moving her hand to his shoulder. “Everyone has a history of some sort, after all.” He kind of wants to slap her hand away, but he genuinely believes that her heart is in the right place, in some manner of speaking. Instead of hitting her, he casts his eyes up to Harry, who purses his lips and raises one brow.

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” Liam replies, tipping his chin up defiantly, still steadfastly making eye-contact with Harry. Harry bites his bottom lip.

They move on to Shawn next, who settled in quicker than Liam did. Liam might feel a bit more bitter if Shawn didn’t seem to make Niall so happy. Shawn can’t come up with a root, either, but Simon is more forgiving with him because he’s new to the program.

 

Later, when Liam is wandering around looking for something to do that doesn’t involve reading bridal magazines, having been thoroughly terrified when he walked in on four of the girls dressing Taylor up in a wedding dress, he finds Harry sitting by himself in the lounge, reading Chaucer.

“They let you bring Chaucer here?”

“Found it wedged underneath my mattress, actually. It’s no Oscar Wilde, but it’s filthy enough.” Harry sighs, dropping the book onto the ground. He stretches out on the sofa, knocking his head back, eyes falling closed.

“You okay?”

“I don’t even fucking know anymore.” He cards both hands through his hair, messing it into a wild mane. “Going out last week, and everything going down in group lately, plus I’m—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Liam waits, trusting that Harry’s a slow talker but an honest one.

“Fuck. I just. I only just turned sixteen. There’s a chance I might have to spend two more years here.”

“Wait, really?” Liam kneels down next to the sofa, gripping Harry by one shoulder.

When Harry opens his eyes again, they’re full of tears. “And the military school thing isn’t an idle threat. Not at all. Not if I’m not making enough progress or nearing graduation, or whatever, and even then, uni’s a long way away. For me. It’s a long way away for me.” He covers his face with both hands, exhaling loudly. “I’ve just—gotta get the fuck out of here.”

Liam rocks back onto his heels, nodding once. “Yeah. Yes.”

::

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Niall hisses, cornering Liam in the corridor outside their room later that night.

 _Probably,_ Liam considers replying, but doesn’t. “What.”

Niall drags Liam by the elbow into the toilets. “You cannot smuggle Harry out of here. You can’t.” He presses his hands against Liam’s biceps, near to bruising. “He’s sixteen.”

“That’s the age of consent in England,” Liam counters, as if that’s the fucking point of this conversation.

“His step-da is a fucking minister for the government and can have you drawn and quartered if anything bad happens to him.”

At this, Liam tenses up. “What, anything bad like him learning to hate himself here? Anything bad like him being locked away or shipped off somewhere even worse?”

“He has _friends_ here. He has _us_ here.”

Liam snorts, brushing Niall’s hands off his arms. “Yeah, and out there he can take advanced courses and get to uni in something like nine-ish months. Nick helped me look it up.”

“Oh, Nick helped you look it up, did he.”

“What the fuck? You hate it here, too, don’t pretend you don’t.”

Niall clenches his jaw, eyes falling shut. “That’s not the point.”

“Harry, he’s—he’s faking like he’s okay, all right? He is not all right. He is _not_ all right. Not everyone’s as loved-up as you are and willing to stay the course for a few more months out of stubbornness.”

Niall opens his eyes again, and his face has gone murderous. “Out of order, and you know it.”

Liam yanks at his fringe with one hand, hard enough to hurt. “Look, I’m not saying it’ll work, and I’m not even saying it’s a good idea. But I can’t stand around and do nothing.” He scrubs at his face, hard. “I can’t. Not again.”

Niall’s face is still hard, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. You are explaining this, and you are explaining it _right the fuck now.”_

::

They convene on Harry’s bed later that day, the other boys from their dorm still running the gauntlet of orientation to the True Directions program. Harry’s seated at the head of the bed, cross-legged on top of his pillow, hair just long enough to pull into a messy top-knot. Louis sits beside him, their knees barely touching, his face shut-down as he stares at the duvet. Liam and Zayn lie flat across the middle of the bed, Liam on his stomach while Zayn lies on his back. Niall is tucked against the foot of the bed, curled in on himself, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

Naturally, they all start talking at once.

“I can’t stay here—”

“I have some valid concerns about—”

“Is it really safe to—”

“Babe, I can’t lose you—”

“Bro, we can’t lose you.”

 

Harry takes in a shuddery breath, looking down. “If I stay here, you’ll lose me regardless.”

At that, hell breaks loose. Louis collapses onto Harry’s lap, Liam flips over onto Zayn, Niall falls off the bed, and Zayn squawks very loudly before shoving Liam aside.

 

“Well fuck me sideways,” Niall groans from the floor, rubbing his forehead.

“I tried to tell you, this was a horse of a different colour,” Liam mutters, rolling onto his stomach again.

“Stop trying to make jokes about being a friend of Dorothy, ya prick, this is serious!” Louis says, kicking out one foot in Liam’s general direction.

Zayn sighs. “This is a clusterfuck. We need reinforcements.”

::

 

Two nights later, Zayn sneaks into Liam’s bed. He settles his chin onto Liam’s shoulder, moving one arm over Liam’s hips.

“You know I can’t come with you two.”

“I—I understand.” Liam tries not to sigh. “I won’t ask you to.”

“I kind of want you to ask me to,” Zayn admits, puffing warm breath against Liam’s skin. “But that wouldn’t work, would it.”

“Not really, no.” Liam moves his arm to circle around Zayn, drawing them closer. “Thanks for your help.”

“Nick and Daisy are good for their word, truly. With them, Harry’s got a few connections he can pull to make the transition quiet until he’s independent.”

“And me?”

“You stay with Nick as long as you want to stay. We’ll both have mobiles by then, it’ll be easier to just—” he falls silent.

“To just be?”

“To just be.” He ducks his head into the curve of Liam’s neck. “My savings are getting interest, and I’ve almost enough for uni. I just have to stick it out a little bit longer without rocking the boat.”

Liam takes a deep breath. “And then we can—we can just be.”

::

Leaving is a complicated process that doesn’t take much time at all. Nick brings the van around to the outside of the grounds, and he idles until Liam and Harry manage to swing the van door open. They’re both breathing hard, having run down two sets of stairs, through the garden, and along the gravel drive. They each have a duffle slung over one arm, Harry’s a festive turquoise while Liam’s matches the royal-blue colour of his college’s football team.

(Harry pressed a stupid-hard kiss to Louis’ mouth, while Liam and Zayn made out for so long that they almost forgot to breathe.)

 

Two days later, they find themselves sitting at a kitchen table that’s set with a rainbow-coloured cloth. Liam keeps trying to catch Harry’s eyes, but Harry is steadfastly looking down at the university selection book Nick picked up for them.

“You don’t have to decide right now, you know,” Liam reminds Harry, flipping through his maths workbook.

Harry scrubs at his fringe. “I just want to be someplace that feels like home.”

::

Within three weeks, Harry is gone.

 

This time, it’s a good thing, though, because he’s moved in with his older sister Gemma, and he’s finishing college courses, and he texts Liam every day to update him about what he and his licensed therapist are working on.

Liam thanks some unknown god that he doesn’t have quite as much to work on as Harry seems to, but he does follow Nick’s advice to find a support group.

They attend together, and afterward Nick’s boyfriend makes dinner for the three of them, just like it’s no different than anything else.

 

Zayn manages to hold on to his banned mobile longer than expected, and he invites Liam to the True Directions graduation.

He says he’s going to wear leather leggings and eyeliner, but only if Liam attends.

 

Liam sits in the front row, laughing as Zayn rips off his graduation robe to reveal his outfit. He cat-calls, tossing loose cigarettes at Zayn’s shirtless chest. Zayn jumps off the platform, catching Liam’s hand with a laugh as he clutches his diploma in the other.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like over-protective and actually-responsible Niall, because god knows he’s the only one in that band of misfits with any fucking sense. “Don’t get a homemade tattoo at 15,” he says. “Don’t smuggle a child away from school without thinking it through, especially if their step-parent works in the government,” he says. Niall is the Craic Daddy we all need in our lives, sometimes. Even if that means dramatically kicking over a chair.
> 
> I can’t stop listening to “Medicine” by Harry Styles and “Dinner and Diatribes” by Hozier while I write this, so go forth and hate me for getting them stuck in your head.
> 
> Also, as usual, I am sorry.


End file.
